


We Both Want Just A Little Bit More

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Violence, M/M, Protective Illya, Some Fluff, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya wants him, he thinks to himself again, wants him so much. He had maybe wanted him ever since he first saw him in Berlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Both Want Just A Little Bit More

The previous evening had been governed by emotions running high after they had gotten back from their latest mission. They had started off the particularly difficult assignment in Marseille on a wrong foot when Gaby was hit with a bullet grazing her arm, and even though the injury was fairly superficial, it had undoubtedly made both Illya and Napoleon worry.

But what had made it worse for Illya was how the mission had gone terribly south after that, and the culmination of it all was when he had almost failed to get to Napoleon in time.

The man they were marking named Owen Murray, an English-born French scientist who had previously worked for the British government, was suspected of selling classified material concerning the British government to the French. In order to implicate Murray for his crimes, they had been tasked to assist the British Intelligence with getting the necessary evidence and for that Napoleon had been assigned to get close to Murray’s son, Patrick Murray. Patrick, his father’s strongest ally, was also well known for his rather exquisite taste in men. Illya had vehemently protested when Waverly had given them their mission orders, which obviously had meant another honeypot assignment for Napoleon, something Illya had never been comfortable with. Even if Napoleon had dismissed his worry, saying he was overreacting and not trusting him enough to do his job, Illya thought his worst fears had been realised when he had found his partner tied up, drugged and half-conscious in the man’s bedroom, with him hovering dangerously above Napoleon. His hands were digging into Napoleon’s shoulders, his eyes raking on Napoleon’s bared torso as his shirt was unbuttoned, half-opened and already sliding off his body. In his fury at finding Napoleon in that predicament, Illya had killed the man on the spot without thinking twice, without any remorse, ignoring his pathetic pleadings to spare his life.

“That man,” he had growled at Napoleon when he was recuperating in their hotel suite after they had managed to escape without further complications, “he wanted you. That man said he wanted you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Hearing his wavering voice and seeing his slightly trembling body with bruises on his shoulders as he sat at the edge of his bed, had angered Illya even more. That man had no right to touch Napoleon like that, had no right at all.

“I heard him say this. My audio bugs on you. That is when I know, his intentions. I heard him say things he should not, things he wanted to do. Made me angry. If I had been late—”

“Let it go, Peril.”

“We underestimated him. I should have seen it.” 

“Peril, please. Just drop the subject. It’s over now. What matters is that we are safe. And Waverly is not taking us to task for the screwed up mission. That’s all that matters,” Napoleon had waved off his partner’s concern with his back against him. And Illya, despite wanting to say so much more, despite hating how lightly Napoleon was taking everything as always when it came to his well-being, had said nothing else after that.

Now, back in UNCLE’s headquarters in London, they are in Waverly’s office for a debrief. The elderly gentleman had told them not to worry too much about their failed mission, saying things are being taken care off despite the mess with Murray’s son. Illya, however, has not been able to focus the entire time. He just could not wait to pull Napoleon aside, to get him alone. He needs to make Napoleon see things, needs to make him understand what has been threatening to boil over ever since that horrible night. But knowing he has to be patient, Illya will simply have to wait.

After Waverly finally dismisses them, Illya hurriedly leads his partner to their office, locks the door when they are finally inside the room.

“What’s the rush, Peril?”

Illya leans against the locked door and eyes Napoleon intently.

“I wanted to talk to you yesterday, but I could not find appropriate time. There was Gaby and then Waverly. People getting in our way.”

Napoleon sighs hearing Illya’s words. Illya certainly looks adorable even when he is angry or annoyed. He thinks he looks menacing, which he does in all honesty, but somehow Napoleon is already immune to that glare he makes. And that look he is wearing at the moment tells Napoleon that something is definitely troubling him. And it is Napoleon’s task now to find out what that is. Although he has an inkling of what is troubling the Russian.

“Are we still on the Murray subject?”

“Yes.”

Gingerly, Napoleon takes a step closer towards his scowling partner.

“Okay, spill it, Peril. What’s troubling you.”

If he is honest enough, Illya wants to admit there are a lot of things troubling him at the moment, like how his attraction for Napoleon has caused chaos in his mind for the longest time, how he has not been able to control his feelings for his enigmatically gorgeous partner no matter how hard he tried, how he cannot fault Napoleon for being too charming for his own good. But what’s troubling him the most at the moment is how he could never tell Napoleon all his pent up feelings, especially after what had happened with Murray. Because Illya never wants Napoleon to think that he is like one of those men, wanting Napoleon for nothing else but his body.

“Peril, talk to me. If you are still upset about what had happened, then you shouldn’t.”

“That night in Marseille. You almost got hurt, yes?” Illya starts suddenly. Napoleon notices the tremor in his hands, clearly signs of impending trouble.

“But I’m all right. I’m okay. You got to me just in time.”

“But if I had not found you sooner—”

Illya pauses for a moment. His brows are furrowed together and his eyes, thunderous steely blue on him, made the American shudder. Obviously, Illya had not let the incident go, a clear indication that he was more upset than what Napoleon had initially thought.

“It’s okay, Peril. There will always be scumbags and psychos out there. Crazy men who would want us against our will, and unfortunately, for me, Murray’s son just happened to be one of those people.”

“So, maybe, I am also one of those people.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, Solo.”

Illya’s voice is broken but he does not break his intense gaze on Napoleon, and Napoleon’s breath hitches and he shifts a little on his feet at Illya’s baffling words. He returns Illya’s serious look, tries to assess what he had told him and sees a slightly panicked look in Illya’s eyes.

“Peril, what are you talking about?” Napoleon says after a few moments of silence. “What are you saying? You are not—”

“I want you,” Illya blurts before he could stop himself and Napoleon’s knees almost buckled hearing his outright confession.

“What?” he whispers disbelievingly. But he should have known better, should have guessed it sooner by the way Illya had been ruthless, disposing of Patrick without any mercy. In his hazed mind that night, Napoleon remembered how Illya’s comforting arms had wrapped around him, had said comforting words while leading him out to safety. Even if they had not mentioned the incident again after that, Napoleon knew Illya had been worried for him, had shown signs of wanting to break every single thing he could reach in their hotel suite. Napoleon should have known even if Illya had always been prone to let his temper get the better of him. He should have known that was not just a case of him being over protective.

“Am I hearing this right?” he then asks, his voice low, hardly above a whisper.

“You heard me,” Illya mutters lowly, “I’m like one of those men that want you, but you must know, what I want is not the way how that man wanted you. He—he wanted to hurt you.”

“Illya,” Napoleon interrupts him but Illya shakes his head. There is sort of a pleading look in his eyes as if asking Napoleon to give him a chance, to let him finish what he wants to say.

“My want for you is different. It messes with my head, makes my chest hurt when I think of this, when I think about it too much, when I know it should not be the way, Solo. That you and I—”

Illya pauses again and sighs. He is struggling for words, hopelessly trying to justify what he is feeling inside, despite knowing the possibility that he might get shot down for his foolish bravery. But what had happened had propelled him to tell Napoleon the truth. He needs Napoleon to know despite it all.

“Illya.”

Napoleon’s voice breaks Illya’s reverie. He sucks in a breath and decides to bite the bullet.

“How we started, the way we started, you must think I am crazy to say this. But the more I think, the more I know I can never take this—this want, this hideous feeling away. And when that man said he wanted you, it made me angry. It made me realise, Cowboy. That want is just one ugly human flaw that cannot be controlled. And I cannot control this want for you. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”

By the time he finishes explaining himself, his chest is heaving. Illya searches Napoleon’s face for something when he says nothing, notes if he could see any abhorrence in his eyes, but he sees none. Feeling a little confident, he unclenches his fists and starts to inch closer towards Napoleon.

“I promise you, Cowboy, I am not like that man.”

Napoleon is appalled to hear Illya say that. His eyes widen as he shakes his head vigorously.

“God, Illya, you are definitely not one of them! You are nothing like that man. And you, of all people, should know that I would never think that of you.”

There is proper anger in Napoleon’s voice and Illya feels vindicated. They stay silent for an unbearable amount of time after that. It might have been mere seconds, it might have been minutes but it does not matter to Illya. What matters is Napoleon is still there standing in front of him, not bolting away. Suddenly, someone shifts, it could have been him, it could have been Napoleon, but the next thing he knows, Napoleon’s hand is on his shoulder, gripping it hard.

“You are a good man, Illya. I’ve never met a man more honourable than you are, so don’t ever compare yourself to those men. You—”

Illya does not say anything to deflect Napoleon’s words, in fact, he does not let him finish. Instead, he catches him unaware by suddenly cupping his face between his hands, capturing his mouth in a hard kiss. Something surges through Illya at the contact of their lips, something electric. It is like nothing he has ever felt before. Maybe it is not normal for someone to want another this much, with this visceral kind of want. But this is Napoleon, a thief who had stolen something from Illya and meeting him had changed everything, turned everything Illya have ever believed in upside down. He has kept his all-consuming feeling for this man inside for far too long. And now, now that he has Napoleon in his arms, kissing him like there is no tomorrow, Illya does not want to let him go.

Napoleon gasps after the Russian breaks the bruising kiss. “Damn, if I had known,” he says breathlessly, “I’d make you kiss me sooner.”

Illya bites his bottom lip as a response and Napoleon moans, curls one hand tighter around Illya’s neck. After another breathless kiss, they move apart slightly and Napoleon hides his face at the crook of Illya’s neck.

“I want you more than anything else,” he hears Illya say. Not only your body, but your heart, and your soul as well, Illya wants to add to his admission, but perhaps, he guesses Napoleon already knows this. He must know this. He then murmurs against Napoleon’s lips. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Napoleon asks dazedly, his heart thudding in his ears. Illya is raining gentle kisses along the side of his jaw.

“For wanting you too much.”

Hearing his confession, Napoleon leans back to look at Illya. “You’re forgiven, and you’ve to forgive me as well because I want you too, Peril.”

Illya wants him, he thinks to himself again, wants him so much. He had maybe wanted him ever since he first saw him in Berlin. The flushed look on Napoleon’s face, the reddened lips, the messy ruffled hair, Illya is absolutely awed looking at Napoleon at the moment and immediately shuts his whirlwind thoughts by giving him another passionate kiss.

“I never want to see you get hurt, Cowboy,” he mutters after breaking their kiss again but his mouth is still roaming along Napoleon’s jaw.

“That feels good, Illya,” Napoleon moans as Illya continues the sweet assault on his skin, wanders down a little to his sensitive neck, caressing and stroking, making Napoleon sigh in pleasure.

“You’re good at this, do you know that?”

“Do you know when I first wanted to kiss you?” Illya mumbles.

“When?” Napoleon asks, his voice caught in his throat when Illya nibbles gently on his earlobe.

“In Istanbul,” Illya whispers in his ear, which was a lie. But he could not tell him it had been Rome. It might make him a little too desperate in Napoleon’s eyes. He smiles at Napoleon when he sees his bright blue eyes on him. “I wanted to kiss you in Istanbul.”

Napoleon chuckles. Illya holds him closer as they face each other but with a frown now on his face. “You are laughing at me?”

“No! Honestly, I thought it was Rome, Peril,” Napoleon says and shrugs. “Must only be me then.”

Illya stops for a moment, lets Napoleon’s words sink in.

Those eyes that are gazing lovingly at him make his heartbeat quickens. He could not help himself from brushing his lips on Napoleon’s again and his arms that are around his neck, pull him closer. “When exactly in Rome?” he demands.

“Oh, maybe after I’d saved you. Or maybe it was after you’d saved me. And then when we were in my room, arguing about the disc.”

Illya closes his eyes and draws in a slow breath as the memories of Rome come rushing back.

“It’s true. Maybe I’d wanted it then too.”

“So it’s not Istanbul then?”

“Maybe I lied.”

Napoleon laughs and pulls away a little from Illya’s hold. He watches him with a look that is sending shivers down Illya’s spine.

“You’re something else, Illya.”

The way Napoleon calls him by his name always gets to Illya. And his admission of him being _‘something else’_ , which the American may need to elaborate further for Illya to comprehend, just floors him with a thousand sensation. Illya often wondered when during the course of their partnership that he had actually started to care and feel for Napoleon. Somehow this little conversation has given him the clear answer he’d been searching for.

His train of thoughts is suddenly cut off by the feeling of Napoleon’s lips on his neck, kissing their way along his jaw line as they made their way towards the soft tender spot under his ear. Napoleon’s hot breath against his skin is suddenly driving him insane as he arches his neck further to give Napoleon access.

“I was already crazy about you then, I just didn’t know what it was then I guess,” Napoleon murmurs as his lips turn their attention on the hollow of Illya’s throat. His whispered words are obviously having its effect on Illya. “I don’t know about you, Peril, but after all these time, even if I’ve never said it, I’ve always been crazy about you.”

Those words spark a fire in Illya. With great difficulty, he entangles himself from Napoleon’s hold and with two strong hands against the American’s chest, Illya pushes him back and pins him against the wall behind them.

“You think I’m not about you?”

Napoleon could only manage to shake his head weakly in response. Illya’s body pressed up against his is making it a little impossible for him to answer. It is definitely making it impossible for him to think straight and form coherent sentences. He then tries cupping Illya’s face with his hands but Illya holds his arms firmly by his side.

“Answer me, Cowboy? You think I’m not?”

With his lips close to Illya’s again, Napoleon murmurs, “God, do you always have to make everything a competition between us?”

“Napoleon, answer me.”

When Illya says his first name, that means he is serious. Napoleon moans.

“Illya, to answer your question, I guess I didn’t think you’d feel the same, and God, I’ve always been crazy about you, and if it’s possible, I think I’m crazier about you than you are about me.”

“No, that’s not possible,” Illya answers defiantly before capturing his mouth, sucking on his bottom lip and biting it down gently making Napoleon gasp. He lets the Russian’s lips go but within a few seconds, Illya is crushing their lips together again, kissing Napoleon with a fierce urgency and at that moment, nothing else matters for Illya but the American in his arms.

As Napoleon parts his lips under Illya’s, a barely audible moan escapes his throat. He is being crushed against the wall and Illya is deepening the kiss with a ruthless urgency, making Napoleon’s senses reel. Illya’s hands moving up and down his sides are causing all kinds of delicious shivers to run through him. For a moment, Illya pulls back slightly to gasp for breath and Napoleon quickly takes the opportunity to attack his neck, kissing his way from the collar of Illya’s shirt and up towards his ear, sucking at the soft point beneath it. Illya's breath hitches and he feels himself getting terribly hot and rather short of breath. His senses are on fire and he knows he has to move this along and fast.

“We should really continue this somewhere else,” he gasps, breathes hotly into Napoleon’s ear. “I want you now, Cowboy.”

Napoleon simply mutters something unintelligible before capturing Illya’s lips again and kisses him senseless. And after finally letting go, he leans his body heavily against Illya’s. He sees that Illya’s cheeks are slightly flushed and his breathing is uneven. And the sight of him has to be the sexiest look Napoleon had ever seen. He is seriously on the verge of losing it if he has to wait a second longer.

“Where do you want to go, Peril? Where do you want me?” he asks huskily.

Hearing such a wanton invitation from Napoleon, Illya quickly grabs him by the waist and pushes him against the desk behind him, not really caring the mess they are making with the fallen files and papers now scattered all over the carpeted floor.

“Illya?” Napoleon asks as Illya leans down on him.

But Illya does not answer, simply makes his way gingerly on top of the gorgeous American. He then runs his hands over Napoleon’s body, slowly fists his collar and leans forward before murmuring in his ear, “I’m going to take you here, Solo. Every inch of you, here.”

 

***

 

Napoleon shivers as Illya gingerly unbuttons his shirt, plucking it with agonising slowness before sliding it off his body. Just a few moments ago, they both were confessing their pent-up feelings to the other, and now, he is practically sprawled on the desk with Illya straddling his half naked body. The anticipation of what’s about to happen between Illya and him is making him anxious but he wants, _needs_ it badly at the same time. And just when he thinks Illya is about to kiss him, the Russian stops. He sees Illya’s eyes go dark.

“What’s wrong?” Napoleon asks. Illya only shakes his head, tries to ignore the anger slowly seeping through him at the sight of the darkening bruises on the American’s shoulders. He keeps what he feels to himself, leans down to press light kisses on Napoleon’s neck before sliding his lips down over the bruises, as if doing that might wipe his angry thoughts and the bruises away. But he fails. Instead, he is reminded of what he had seen that night, of Patrick Murray hovering over Napoleon, his current own action mirroring the memory he wants to burn. He winces. 

“I didn’t touch him! I swear!” the man had cried, had pleaded, but Illya could only see red then. He remembers shooting the man between his eyes. And now, he is doing the exact same thing to Napoleon. Alarmed at the idea, he pulls back immediately but Napoleon’s fingers are quick to grab his arm.

“Illya, hey, look at me. I know you. You are not him. You will never be him. I want this, I want _you_ ,” he assures him and Illya realises Napoleon had read his thoughts. It is one of his traits Illya had found annoying at first, his ability to always read his worries, his fears, always able to read _him_. But he also found it to be one of the reasons that had made him fall for Napoleon, hard.

“The things I want to do to you,” Illya murmurs shakily against his skin and Napoleon husks a laugh.

“Then quit worrying and just get on with it, will you?”

Illya cannot help but smirk at that, runs his fingers through Napoleon’s hair. He studies him for a moment, too long in fact, much to the American’s exasperation. “Patience is not my middle name, Peril.”

There is still obvious worry in Illya’s eyes but when Napoleon reaches out to him with that look only he could give Illya, he finally relents. 

“Lean back,” Illya then says quietly, his tone almost a commanding one and Napoleon simply complies with his wishes and laughs. “Pushy-pushy.”

“Look who’s talking,” Illya snorts. 

But before Napoleon could say anything else, Illya’s hands have already started to roam over his torso making him shiver and arch. His breathy sighs quickly turn into moans of pleasure as Illya’s lips join his hands, stroking and licking all over, not leaving any part of Napoleon’s delicious skin untouched. Napoleon bites his lower lip and inches a hand downward, wanting to stroke and ease himself against his rapidly tightening pants. But Illya catches his wrist before he could and pins it down by his side.

“Peril, you’re moving far too slowly. Am a big boy, I’m not going to break,” Napoleon groans in protest, grits his teeth, but Illya merely ignores him and continues to slide down further, murmuring against his hard belly, “No, not yet. We have plenty of time.”

“Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?”

Illya pulls off for a moment to look at him. He wants to say ‘yes, they’ve waited long enough, _he_ has waited long enough’, but Napoleon is definitely someone worth waiting for. And he is willing to wait a little bit longer if it means him doing it right. Napoleon wants to protest again when Illya seems to be doing nothing but could only let his head fall back against the desk with a thud when he feels Illya mouthing him against the fabric of his pants. The friction is driving him insane.

“Hmm, if this is some kind of punishment for me, I—,” Napoleon moans softly, unable to finish his sentence. Illya’s fingers are now easing Napoleon’s pants open and soon, Napoleon is lifting his hips to let Illya slide both his boxers and pants right down to his ankles, springing his cock free.

“This is not punishment, Cowboy, but if you think it is, it will be a pleasurable one for you,” Illya teases as he tenderly bites the hollow of Napoleon’s hipbone. He pauses for a moment to look at Napoleon and sees that he has his eyes closed and his hands are gripping the side of the desk, his arms stretched tautly. Illya could see what his actions are doing to him judging by his hardening erection displayed perfectly in front of his eyes. Feeling bold, he grins and decides to toy with Napoleon a little bit longer.

“I always imagined doing this to you,” he begins as he kisses the straining head of Napoleon’s length making Napoleon whimper, “always imagined you hard in my mouth, imagined how you taste.”

“Then imagine no more, my friend,” Napoleon murmurs breathlessly.

He is already aching with need and is desperate for Illya to move this along. When nothing happens after what seems like an eternity, Napoleon looks down to see Illya grinning, his mouth mere millimetres away from where he really wants it to be.

“Illya, what the hell are you doing?”

“You okay?” he asks gently, ignoring Napoleon’s annoyed tone.

“I’m more than okay. Just get on with it.”

“You are so impatient,” Illya smirks and licks his lips, wetting them with the tip of his tongue and that sight is enough to drive Napoleon mad.

“Oh, fuck patience! We’ve waited long enough,” Napoleon cries as he strains his hips up. “Do it, Illya. I want your mouth around me now, please!”

“Okay, Cowboy, but don’t beg me to stop before I’m done,” Illya growls. He focuses on his breathing and then with slow, steady fingers, he grips the base of Napoleon’s length.

Napoleon could feel the heat of Illya’s gaze on his sex even though he has his eyes clenched shut and then he releases a sharp intake of breath when finally, finally, Illya’s mouth closes gently around the head of his weeping member. Then his tongue starts lapping the pre-cum that had slicked the tip making Napoleon moan.

“Ahh, that feels so good, Illya.”

 _‘And you taste damn fine’_ , Illya thinks as he continues to suckle Napoleon.

“God,” Napoleon breathes when Illya swallows further down his throbbing member. He reaches down and tugs at Illya’s hair and the Russian sucks harder with every tug that Napoleon makes. Napoleon, on the other hand, is slowly getting to the edge but wants the pleasure to last for as long as he could stand it. He concentrates on how he had always imagined tasting Illya instead, to touch the tip of his member, to let the taste of him spread over his tongue. That thought alone makes his cock, which is already suffering under Illya’s exquisite assault, swell and ache harder. He badly needs Illya to get him off.

And as if reading Napoleon’s mind, Illya laps and sucks until every inch of Napoleon is in his mouth. At the same time, his fingers tease along Napoleon’s inner thighs, every time creeping up higher until soon his fingers are brushing the tense ring of Napoleon’s opening. Napoleon’s eyes widen in an instant and he whimpers when Illya gently slides one slicked finger inside. Napoleon groans as the heat sparks through his body. Illya’s lips are tightening around his shaft and his probing finger is twisting gently and slowly, too much but not nearly enough. There is so much sensation all over him, around him, _in_ him. Napoleon wants more.

“Need more…” he pants softly, the words forced out of his mouth. His brain is shutting down and he is almost senseless with need. “ _Please_ , Illya…”

Illya lets go of his cock and smiles. “You’re begging. It’s a beautiful sound to hear.”

“Please,” Napoleon chokes out and groans, disappointed at the loss of contact of Illya’s lips but then moans loudly when instead of one, two fingers are probing deep inside his tight heat.

“More like this, Cowboy?” Illya teases. Before Napoleon could answer, the fingers that are poking and probing him hit a particularly sensitive spot.

“Fuck!” Napoleon wails and arches up, throws his head back. Illya, spurred by Napoleon’s reaction, continues to finger him until he is writhing wildly beneath his touch. He gazes at the sight before him, how Napoleon is coming apart at the seams and it is all because of him. And Napoleon, so caught up in the sensation Illya is giving to him, is not even aware that Illya is now practically crouched down in between his parted thighs, pushing his hips and legs higher and then…and then…

“Ohh, fuck!”

_That isn’t his finger…it’s his tongue…he’s…oh god!_

Every rough stroke is like a lick of fire and Napoleon’s body responds instinctively. His muscles strained, needing and wanting more. He wants more of those wet strokes, more of that sensation that is ripping him apart, ripping through his body every time that tongue twists into him. His hips writhe and arch, his cock hard and throbbing and leaking and when Illya closes his fist around that aching length, stroking him hard and fast, tugging and pulling, that long perfect moment Napoleon craves desperately, comes.

“Oh, Illya, fuck! _Ahh!_ ”

He arches and thrusts against Illya’s fists as he comes and when he finally softens, he shivers and Illya is holding him close, his arms hugging his trembling body tightly.

“Oh God, Peril…” he murmurs, his mouth pressed against Illya’s neck.

“You like it?” Illya whispers in his ear.

“It was—it was—I don’t even know how to say it.”

“It’s okay, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs as he curls his arms tighter around Napoleon. He feels the warmth of his body in his embrace and kisses his temples softly. After watching Napoleon’s rapture, Illya is trembling himself, his cock painfully hard. But his own needs could wait. This time around, it’s all about making Napoleon see how much he is willing to give just to make him understand how much he wants him. 

When Napoleon’s breathing starts to calm after a while, a satisfied smile forms on his lips.

“Thanks, Peril.”

“For sucking you off?”

“No, for loving me like that,” Napoleon says. At that, Illya finds no words that could really explain what he feels at the moment. _Do you know what you have done to me, Solo? Of course you don’t, because I don’t even know it myself,_ he muses. He sees Napoleon’s face lights up, and Illya thinks he probably does know, like always. In no time, Napoleon reaches up to kiss Illya, could taste himself on his lips. A blush creeps on his cheeks at the thought of what Illya had done, of where they had done it, and Napoleon realises it is only fair that he returns the favour.

“Your turn now?” he winks and Illya only grins before reaching for the hem of his shirt to pull it off his body. He smacks his lips on Napoleon’s and mutters, “Yes, now show me how much you want me, Cowboy.”

Napoleon’s eyes twinkle in delight. He will show Illya exactly that, will make him forget everything else and make him remember the only thing that matters.

Them.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I'm still writing these boys, just in case you have not noticed. (sorry about that, hope you are not too bored). I'm still in love with them, god help me.  
> 2) I've had this story in my fic folder for some time. Stumbled upon it again and added a few stuff to the story line. I have done this trope to death (hence, the hesitation to post the story), but it is still my favourite trope about them. Illya being caring and gentle, protective and angry over hurt!Napoleon and almost always pining for him, oblivious that Napoleon feels the same way as well and Napoleon convincing Illya that he cares/loves him too.  
> 3) As you can see, I am crap at naming fics.  
> 4) Finally, I hope you will like this grossly cheesy, mushy, cliche story! Apologies for any mistakes, they are all mine. xx


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